31 minute read
COLUMBUS' MOST INTERESTING PEOPLE
from (614) January 2022
THE MOST INTERESTING PEOPLE IN COLUMBUS.
By Jack McLaughlin
An internationally-respected Muay Thai trainer. A local foundation director leading the charge to resettle Afghan refugees. The Columbus bee whisperer.
These are just a few of the fascinating individuals calling our fine city home. And in our cover section this month, you’ll get to meet them and many more.
While many of our regular readers already know that January serves as our annual Interview Issue, we’ve tweaked the form just a bit to keep things, well, interesting.
And while it’s great to hear from the biggest names available, sometimes, they end up as just that: a name. More often than not, the more compelling stories, the more compelling people, are the ones you have to do a bit of digging to find.
In addition to the individuals we’ve already listed, you can expect to learn about a wildly popular, and local, true crime podcast, the man behind the first Black-owned brewery in Central Ohio, a minister turned urban farmer, the iconic Columbus-born artist behind Dirty Frank’s and Hoof Hearted Brewing, and the most unique hot sauce entrepreneur you’ll ever meet.
So welcome to the 2022 Interview Issue; welcome to the most interesting people in Columbus.→
After learning Muay Thai in the back room of a restaurant, Hope Vitellas has the international fighting circuit in a headlock.
By Melinda Green / Photos by Leonardo Carrizo
For Muay Thai instructor Hope Vitellas, even defeat seems to be an opportunity.
As a 19-year-old student, Vitellas loved Thai food and spent countless hours at Thai Village on Goodale Avenue, studying and eating, eventually even developing a rapport with the owner, Lek.
“He became like a father figure,” she recalled. “I think he wanted to extend something personal and see if I liked it.” He asked if she wanted to learn Muay Thai. She didn’t even know what it was.→
He sent Vitellas home with some videotapes (after all, it was 1991). “I was like ‘Eh, okay, I’m up for whatever,’” she recalled. “It was new, it was novel, and I think a lot had to do with me wanting to do martial arts all my life. I don’t know what he wanted from me, but he didn’t sign up to be Mr. Miyagi.”
But when there wasn’t anything going on at the eatery, Lek would hang a heavy bag. Vitellas began learning, slowly.
One of the restaurant’s servers also trained in that banquet hall and invited her to spar. “I didn’t even know what that meant,” she said.
When they met at OSU’s Larkins Hall, “Basically, he does a flying knee in the first five seconds, and I’m flat on the ground,” she recalled. “I felt like I passed out, and when I woke up, he was standing over me.”
“After that point, I thought, ‘It is ON!’ I really wanted to learn.”
Lek continued to teach her, but he kept his teachings close to the vest. “I would ask all these questions, and no answers, no answers.”
So Vitellas, full of hubris, took the logical next step for a novice fighter: she entered herself in an international tournament.
“I thought I was the baddest motherfucker ever come to be. I’m like 19, 20 years old, and as I’m seeing these teams… I’ve never even owned gloves. I don’t know how to wrap my hands. I don’t own the proper shorts, a mouthpiece, anything! I thought ‘Oh God, I might be in over my head,’ but I was ignorant enough not to know if I really was.”
She ran to Galyan’s, bought equipment, and called Lek from a pay phone. “It was a Saturday night; his restaurant was packed. He comes running in [to the venue], pulling his tie down at me. Then he says ‘All right. Let’s do it.’”
The fight, Vitellas says, was “horrible.” After that, though, Lek started taking her seriously and answering her questions. The next year, she returned with a vengeance, not only dominating her fight but earning the trophy for Fighter of the Night.
She continued to win, and then, in 2001, she fought in the world championships as part of the U.S. team.
In 2004, she began teaching friends in her garage. After a few months, business was booming, until the city alerted her that she couldn’t operate at her residence. Now, Short North Muay Thai is in Grandview.
This past year, she took eight fighters to the national Muay Thai tournament. Six won their brackets and brought home belts—a tremendous accomplishment.
↑ Hope Vitellas, concludes a training session
Like Lek, she is protective of fighting, and treats it like an art form. Aware of its preciousness, she shares more as students and relationships grow.
“[Muay Thai] is a way of living through the heart and living through this art,” she said. “Everyone is welcome.”
So even more than her defeats, that may be the greatest opportunity of all.
To sign up for a class of your own, visit shortnorthmuaythai.com
How one wildlysuccessful Columbus podcast serves as both true crime storyteller and cold case advocate.
By Jack McLaughlin Photos by Sarah Pfeifer
They found her body in the lake, caught in the windswept and unforgiving waters of Lake Eerie. And after more than four decades, police still don’t know her name.
This is the story Nic Edwards tells me, after sliding an identikit sketch of the missing woman in front of me, while we’re tucked into an offset booth in the corner of an underlit, North Columbus bar.
And if anyone that evening mistook him for an off-duty detective—toting a small zip-up briefcase filled with police sketches and case documents—they probably wouldn’t have been the first to do so.
Alongside his co-host (who simply goes by The Captain for anonymity) the pair make up the local and ineffably popular—averaging over one million downloads each week—podcast True Crime Garage. And while they’ve won over an international audience due to their combination of approachability, story-telling talent, and a sprinkle of humor when needed, the duo is stepping beyond the role of traditional podcast hosts, serving as both entertainment for the masses, but also advocates for the voiceless.
As its name suggests, True Crime Garage started in Edwards’ Columbusarea garage. And at first, the project was more of an excuse to socialize than a serious attempt to hit it big.
“We were pretty hardcore podcast listeners before a lot of people knew what they were. With [The Captain] moving back from Indiana, we really just recorded the first few episodes to see if we could do it,” Edwards said.
But it wouldn’t stay that way for long, as less than 30 episodes later, True Crime Garage rocketed up the download charts.
The only thing was, Edwards and The Captain had no idea.
“We knew people were listening, but we really had no clue how many,” The Captain Said. “One day, our hosting website crashed. It was right after we had paid for another month. I spent about 24 hours trying to fix the problem, and then we learned it was due to all the traffic we were getting. That week, we were something like a top 30 podcast in the world.”
Another early episode that contributed to True Crime Garage’s meteoric rise was the case of OSU student Brian Schafer, who vanished after leaving the Ugly Tuna Saloona on an April night in 2006.
The podcast often covers other local and Ohio-based cases as well, and for the duo, the reality of each disappearance or death becomes stark and unavoidable when they take place in the same city.
“The Brian Schafer case sticks with me. When the podcast was just taking off, [my band] was playing music across the street from where he was last seen,” he said. “As I was playing, I remember staring at the Ugly Tuna, and I would just think: ‘It all happened right there.’”
Through the years, though, the duo’s motivations have quietly shifted. They stopped being satisfied by simply telling stories about cases: now, they’re trying to help them get solved, too.
The pair are currently involved with The Porchlight Project, a nonprofit that aims to fund DNA testing for Ohio cold cases. The aforementioned sketches and documents Edwards brought with him to our interview—and the ones he often carries with him day-to-day—are related to Porchlight cases.
↑ The Captain cheers his brew
The Captain and Nic Edwards →
↑ Nic Edwards at the bar
They’ve also begun using the podcast to galvanize support for and interest in other cases that have either run cold or were never reported on.
One of these, the case of 15 yearold Columbus teen Tony Muncy—whose body was found in Delaware County after he went missing from the York Plaza Movie Theatre in 1983—was covered on the podcast in the summer of 2016.
Less than four years later in April of 2020 (although they refuse to take any credit for the breakthrough), the case was solved after nearly four decades.
“There’s a responsibility that we have now, to help if we can,” The Captain said. “Because there are so many cases, whether it’s because they happened a long time ago or because they weren’t reported on, that need that kind of attention and exposure.”
The disappearance of Cleveland’s 27 year-old Paige Coffey, covered in an episode released just last month, is one of those cases.
“I’m picturing Trinettea Williamson [mother of Paige], and shce’s fucking heartbroken; her daughter’s been gone for two years and we don’t know what happened. Nobody does,” Edwards said. “A lot of stories, like this one, they disappear if people don’t tell them. We’re trying to make sure that doesn’t happen.
To listen for yourself, visit truecrimegarage.com
Meet the man, and the rollercoaster story, behind Central Ohio’s first Blackowned craft brewery.
By Melinda Green/Photos by Maddie Schroeder
Anthony “Sizzle” Perry is a lifelong entrepreneur. “My grandfather bought me an ice cream truck when I was nine years old,” he said. “That was my summer job. I learned to count money. I learned inventory management. I learned about contracts, business licensing.”
At Gahanna Lincoln High School, he sold gum. Later, he co-owned a landscape business and tax preparation franchises. “I’ve always been the guy who wanted to make some money,” he admitted.
He’s also a single dad whose five children live with him.
He originally intended to open a craft beer/restaurant hybrid, and then, two days before Christmas 2019, he was denied the grant that would make it possible. ”I remember walking down my street in Worthington, crying, because I didn’t have anything left. I thought to myself, I can’t continue to go up and down like this in front of my kids. I’m done. →
“But one of my brothers was like, ‘No, you’re not! Shut up!’”
And his brother was right. One week later, Perry was sitting in a building in Gahanna, discussing a lease for the building that would become Crafted Culture, the first Black-owner brewery in Central Ohio.
Of course there were obstacles, such as grants to minority-owned businesses that have yet to be disbursed. “It was like a Bo Jackson running play: ‘You’re! not! stopping! us!’ That’s exactly how we felt.
“We opened our doors with the platform of equity and inclusion for everybody. We decided to die on the hill that we would only highlight Black-, minority-, and local-owned brands,” he continued. “We’ll be the megaphone for anybody who doesn’t have a voice within this industry.”
To that end, Perry and company can constantly be seen in Crafted Culture merch with the brewery’s catchphrase plastered across it. “Be(er) the change,” they read.
Many other Black-owned breweries across the country don’t have a brickand-mortar presence, so Crafted Culture is a special space. “We’re not just beer,” Perry said. “Our brand is unique.
“A lot of times, this feels like my grandmother’s house, where if enough people show up, it’s basically a cookout. Turn the music up. Let’s have a party. We’ve become this intersection for beer and Black culture.
↑ Anothony "Sizzle" Perry, cheers with one of his brews
“We have the chance to be that space for so many people who have walked into a place and thought ‘I’m the only one like me here.’”
Perry’s grandmother also comes into play during the brewery process as well, he noted. “My nana, her desserts were crazy. A lot of our more decadent beers draw inspiration from desserts she made.”
In their first ten months of operation, Crafted Culture’s measured economic impact on the minority sector of Columbus was over $2.5 million, he said.
But he’s not afraid to admit that he’s made mistakes, either. “I maintain that I’m ‘ignorance on fire’ at all times,” he said, laughing. “But whatever happens, it’s gonna take the shape that it needs to take.
“But I probably won’t live to see Crafted Culture be a success in my own terms, because it’s not a success until it feeds several generations.”
For now, though, he’s ahead of the game. “We always say ‘impact over incentive.’ We want to make a difference everywhere we go. If we don’t get rich making a difference, that’s fine—but if we can, let’s do that too!”
To learn more about Sizzle’s brewery, visit craftedculturebrew.com
↓ Merch available in the brewery
How minister turned urban farmer Aaron Hopkins is reconnecting the city’s South Side with agriculture.→
By Jaelani Turner-Williams Photos by James DeCamp
South Side Family Farms founder, Minister Aaron K. Hopkins, is a man of faith, but he’s a man of many other hats as well. As President of South Side Community Action Network and AtLarge Religious and Social Services Commissioner for the Columbus South Side Area Commission, Hopkins is focused on establishing communal relationships. A resident of the city’s South Side for 30 years, his efforts in the neighborhood have helped create South Side Family Farms, a project that not only unites his community, but provides urban-grown food boxes to Columbus as well.
“It’s like that village concept of teaching people to feed themselves–if you can teach people to feed themselves, you can teach them to sustain themselves,” he said.
A former demolition laborer, Hopkins discovered during the pandemic that his great-great grandfather was a turkey farmer. Through an Ohio Ecological Food and Farm Association course as a beginning farmer, he learned about land stewardship and no-till methods that reconnected him with his agricultural lineage.
It was when he noticed that the city was working to tear down blighted houses, transforming them into empty lots, that Hopkins decided to put his knowledge into action.
Rather than allow the lots to become overgrown, Hopkins and fellow community organizers rid them of nuisance vegetation, creating urban farms instead. And now with three locations–two on Wilson Avenue and one in Johnstown–the South Side Family Farms team wants neighboring residents to collaborate through food cultivation and create new career avenues in farming that they probably hadn’t considered before.
“The thing about having South Side pride–we’ve got a really broad vision for the work we’re doing. We have a focus on strengthening our community through agriculture,” Hopkins said. “We grow and we do allow the community to grow with us…We call South Side Family Farms ‘learning places’ [where] we do a lot of educating communities.”
In the same way that Hopkins discovered his own agricultural roots, part of the education he mentioned is geared toward reconnecting other South Side residents with their own.
“One thing that’s hindering our community is there is a stigma amongst African-Americans about [farming] being enslavement. Although we
↓ Minister Aaron Hopkins tends to the garden
recognize the unfortunate history of Africans that were brought to this country and enslaved, they were brought here because of their ability to produce,” he said. “I was really inspired to connect youth to their heritage, for them to understand most families that migrated North that they have a base in agriculture and a heritage that’s associated with the land. This is something that isn’t taught in our urban schools.”
Looking to develop 4-H clubs to further teach students about sustainable agriculture, South Side Family Farms has recently created their own take on community supported agriculture as well. The farms have begun offering a produce package program where recipients can pay $25 weekly for a box of urban-grown produce that the organization will deliver.
And with the help of one hometown, family-owned company, there are also plans for a local farmstand where produce package program boxes will be given out.
↑ Minister Aaron Hopkins harvests a beet
“The Grote family of Donatos [is] donating the land behind the original Donatos Pizza that sits on Thurman Avenue, and they actually used to live right where we’re putting our farmstand,” Hopkins said. “We’re going to be distributing produce boxes and doing our packaging,” Hopkins said.
Hopkins encourages the next generation of farmers, urban or otherwise, to have organic and sustainable practices for growth in the community and with farmland. But this, like South Side Family Farms itself, he said, requires a little faith.
“Faith is very much a principle that has guided me and gotten me to this level. You’ve gotta invest the seed if you’re anticipating any type of harvest,” he said. “You have to do some preparation to plant the seed and nurture the ground. We’re just trying to inspire others to put their hand on the plow.” ♦
From Dirty Frank’s to Hoof Hearted, this Columbus native son has turned his outsider art into a household name.
By Jim Fischer / Photos by Jen Brown
Art by Thom Lessner
Beer and art go together like lifelong friends.
At least they do at Hoof Hearted Brewing. That’s why co-founder Trevor Williams tapped Philadelphia-based outsider artist Thom Lessner, a friend since they attended elementary school in Upper Arlington, to create the visual branding for the brewery.
Despite having made art and worked in artistic spaces, Lessner said he initially didn’t see it as a professional transaction.→
↑ Framed art by Thom Lessner
“I was like, ‘Of course I’ll give you art (to use for the brewery),’” Lessner said by phone from Philly, his home now. “I didn’t really see it as anything in particular.”
About a decade later and Lessner, now formally Art Director for the central Ohio brewer, said he’s extremely proud of the work he’s done for Hoof Hearted and, while he said it’s not the same as a body of work he might have made at one point in time for a gallery show, the can designs, logos and other work he’s created that defines the brewery’s visual vibe “feels like making art to me,” he said. He added that helping to build the brand gives him a sense of being “part of something bigger than just my name in an art gallery.”
Because that’s something the selftaught artist has experience with too. Like many artists, Lessner spent a lot of time drawing, sketching and doodling when he was young. He said he began to take it seriously in high school at Upper Arlington and Fort Hayes Metropolitan Education Center, contributing to a friend’s skateboarding zine and other “fun stuff in my community.”
But when some of his friends opted for art school, Lessner chose not to join them.
“I didn’t really understand the idea of art school,” he said. “I maybe could have progressed faster than I did but I’m happy with the way it worked out. I did everything slow and steady.”
Lessner moved to San Francisco, where he hung out with some friends who did graffiti (“I never did it but I liked the idea of it,” Lessner said). But he kept drawing, inspired by skateboarding graphics, punk rock record covers and Eightball Comics.
He relocated to Philadelphia in the late 90s, connecting with some like-minded artists at a local gallery and finding himself drawn to making caricatures, often of famous people.
“I was working at a pizza shop and doing a lot of drawing,” Lessner recalled. “It was a great life but there were times I would have this moment of ‘What the hell am I doing?’”
↓ Thom Lessner's work for Hoof Hearted's coffee line, and beer cans
↑ Thom Lessner's icon skateboard art
After getting married, he took a job as an art handler for a museum, an effort to have a “real job” but still work in art. Eventually, his grade school buddy Trevor Williams called with an offer to do some design work for his nascent craft brewery.
“It feels like the most authentic thing. We’re all doing what we like, doing it like we were still kids but in a grown-up way,” Lessner said.
Other brands have sought Lessner out for his outsider flair, including skateboard companies, musicians and Columbus’ own Dirty Frank’s Hot Dog Palace.
He does most of his work from Philadelphia, but he gets back to his hometown when he can, often for Hoof Hearted events and festivals.
“I’m doing exactly what I want to do,” Lessner said. And it’s hard to argue with that. ♦
By Jack McLaughlin Photos by Sarah Pfeifer
How a former lawyer is now the face of the city’s largest refugee resettlement group.
Former attorney Angie Plummer has heard the lawyer jokes before. Try one on her, though, and it’s not going to stick.
Why, you ask? While she worked for years as an attorney for the state of Ohio, Plummer eventually jettisoned a career in law for something much more difficult, but—in her mind—much more rewarding, and more pressing.
Plummer currently serves as the Director of Community Refugee and Immigration Services, referred to more commonly as CRIS. The group has been helping resettle refugees from around the globe for decades, and her involvement with CRIS goes all the way back to the late 90s, when she found herself in a comfortable, but ultimately unfulfilling, position.
“In my state job I worked with people I liked; it was a good job, but it left me feeling empty in a way that’s hard to explain,” Plummer said.
So after reading a newspaper story about another lawyer volunteering for CRIS, Plummer decided on a whim to do the same.
Soon enough, she was cutting back on hours at her state job and volunteering more and more at CRIS. Then, in 2003 after one of the organization’s founders stepped down, she took on the role of director herself.
“One day I was seeing a woman who needed chemotherapy, but was reluctant to do so until her daughter could come [to the US]. And I realized I had the ability to make that happen,” she said.
While the role gives Plummer a renewed sense of purpose and direction, it’s far from easy, and even less straightforward, as she often finds herself juggling the emotional weight of relocating families.
“I think it’s kind of impossible to do this work and compartmentalize. But I would never want to block everything out even if I could, not totally,” she said. “The intensity of those emotions makes me feel alive; that’s what keeps me going when I’m tired.”
And lately at least, Plummer has had good reason to be tired. After the fall of Kabul, CRIS has seen a huge influx of Afghani refugees, and on massively expedited timelines.
But busy is usually how she likes things. Plummer is most in her element when she’s working with people face to face: real people with real lives, some of whom are facing massive hurdles. And because of this, the learning at CRIS doesn’t only go one way. It’s through the people she helps on a daily basis that Plummer is able to learn for herself, and about herself, as well.
“Not to say I don’t still have my own shallow issues, because we all do, but it helps me remember day to day that if I don’t like my shoes, or my clothes, it’s not the end of the world,” she said. “It helps me learn how fortunate so many of us really are.”
To learn more, visit crisohio.org
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A PERFECT 2022 RESOLUTION!
This Columbus entrepreneur lept from a cushy corporate job to become an innovative hot sauce boss.
By Mallory Arnold Photos by Sarah Pfeifer
↑ Lauren D'Souza shows her product
For Lauren D’Souza, hot sauce isn’t a condiment; it’s simply part of her life.
“Growing up, I watched my father throw it on everything,” she said. “I was always sneaking little dabs of Tabasco sauce, even when I was little. It’s something that’s in my blood at this point.”
“I keep it in my bag,” she admitted. “And throw it on my food at restaurants! People usually are curious to try it, too.”
So it should go without saying that when a friend dared her to try hot sauce in her coffee in 2020, she went for it.
“And it was what you’d expect. It was not great,” she said.
However, the gears in her head began working overdrive that morning. D’Souza researched if there were any hot sauce products on the market that could be added into coffee and found a small corner of the internet where people preferred Tabasco in their morning brews and teas. She then scoured grocery stores across the TriState collecting different hot sauces to mix and concocted her own recipe. 10 months and 93 iterations later, D’Souza finally had one light roast and one dark roast hot sauce (for coffee) and a new company she named Ujjo. Last summer, she set up a Kickstarter campaign hoping to raise a total of $5,000. She did that in just four hours, and the money kept coming in.
D’Souza quickly realized the demand for Ujjo was much larger than she anticipated, and she immediately had her hands full with filling orders and creating more product. Meanwhile, she was still working full-time at RedBull as the brand marketing executive for Ohio, West Virginia and the Western part of Pennsylvania.
In September, D’Souza made the difficult decision to quit her full-time job and pursue her passion.
“My RedBull team was so supportive in what I wanted to do,” she said. “I loved my job, but I also love the thrill and autonomy of entrepreneurship. So I went for it.”
Today, Ujjo is gaining traction and succeeding more each month. D’Souza is on track to replace her previous annual salary this year. While she knows she made the right decision to leave her comfortable full-time job, at the time, D’Souza said it was terrifying.
“It was scary going out without a safety net,” she said. “I found out that I had to be more financially careful than I had been in the days I was pulling a steady paycheck, but at the end of the day, that fulfillment of getting to connect with customers and do what I love makes it so worth it.”
Relishing in her success now, it would be easy to forget the trials and tribulations D’Souza endured in the beginning, but she remembers all too well.
“I feel like it’s easy for me to sit back and tell others, ‘You should just go for it!’” She said. “I mean, the reality of it is that there’s a lot of privilege and support that enabled me to do this. I know there’s a lot of people who don’t have that luxury.”
D’Souza advises wanna-be entrepreneurs to pursue their passions honestly, especially if they have a full-time job.
“Talk with people around you, especially your employer,” she said. “Let them know you want to do something that’s fulfilling this extra outlet for you. Don’t jump too recklessly, but give it your all.”
In the end, it’s worth all the failed recipe attempts, the late-night planning, the balancing act — because D’Souza loves what she does.
“I feel so incredibly fulfilled because something I made is out there in the world,” she said. “And for a creative person, what better feeling is there?”
To learn more, go to Ujjo.com
↓ Ujjo hot sauce
From educator to honey farmer, catch the buzz on the city’s most unique bee whisperer.→
By Jack McLaughlin Photos by Sarah Pfeifer
The smoke pools around his face; his outstretched fingers.
When it clears enough to see, the hundreds, if not thousands, of insects take shape: Dave Noble’s entire hand is covered in a pulsing mass of bees.
But for Noble, an experienced beekeeper, bee educator, and now a bee entrepreneur, this is simply all in a day’s work.
“I have a very good relationship with my bees; I rarely get stung,” he said. “Do they recognize me? No, probably not. I believe that bees are the best teachers though; if you know how to listen, they'll show you how to act around them.” For the imposing six and a half foot tall beekeeper—whose massive frame belies the patience and quiet care he practices with each individual insect— the love of beekeeping has been with him for decades, buried under the skin like a spent stinger.
“It started when I was a student at OSU; I had originally intended to study plant pathology, which dovetails a lot with beekeeping,” Noble said. “Then when I was exposed to Ohio State’s Honeybee Research Lab and my mentor Sue Cobey, things just kind of took off.”
And it was through Cobey that Noble began to not just learn about bees, but to teach others about them as well, something he continues to this day by offering a wide range of beekeeping classes at the Columbus Garden School.
Today, Noble also owns and operates the pandemic-born business Red Beard Bees. This means he’s around the insects constantly, housing roughly 65 hives across several properties. He even keeps a number of hives at his personal home in New Albany
“I look forward to my work with the bees, to spending time with them. Having so many of them here at home now does not mean that I have unwittingly thrown my work-life balance out of whack,” he said. “Quite the opposite really. It has helped me to integrate my work and my life. It may sound corny, but the bees have helped me to realize what my life’s work is.”
While honey, as you might expect, is a significant source of income for Red Beard Bees, Noble dips into other more unique markets as well.
One of those markets is selling queens.
“Queen bees will mate with as many as 30 drones in the first 12 days of their lives; it’s all about genetic diversity. I sell fully mated queens for $40,” Noble said, noting that a queen—unlike many bees which live for only weeks—can sometimes survive for more than five years.
“My goal is to eventually make selling queens as big or bigger than my honey sales,” he added.
Noble is also planning to begin selling beeswax for candles as his hive numbers continue to grow, aiming to build a business that’s as diversified as possible.
↑ Dave Noble reaches into the honeycomb of bees
Diversified, that is, within the world of beekeeping.
That’s because, for all his gregariousness and openness as an educator, Noble revealed that bees are his passion, and he’s aiming to do as much as he possibly can with them. Whether he catches a few stings or not.
“I love teaching people, I love seeing them learn,” he said. “But for as much as I like people, I think I actually prefer bees. That’s where I’m at now.” He said with a smile.
To purchase a queen for your hive, visit facebook.com/redbeardbees
↓ The bees climb onto Dave Noble
